


Forgive Me

by maliciousfisheeves



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Complete, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-01 07:58:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6509587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maliciousfisheeves/pseuds/maliciousfisheeves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone who partakes of the blood should not be ill.<br/>Someone who is the most holy man in the city should not be ill.</p><p>And yet Laurence's health has appeared to decline, and so Gehrman investigates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preamble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of Gehrman's investigations.

           Gehrman tented his hands, watching Laurence from afar. He observed him carefully, but did not listen to what he was saying. He was busy lecturing, with plenty of intent students to do so for him.

            Laurence was staying nearly still as he explained, something that to most wouldn’t be surprising, but Gehrman knew him better; if it were possible Laurence would wear tracks across the lecture hall floor.

            Laurence stopped talking for a moment, and scholars raised their hands. He watched Laurence take this opportunity, stepping forward with relief twinkling in his eyes as he placed a hand onto the sturdy brown desk, closer to the questioner. Laurence did not return to the diagrams behind him, and continued to lean on the desk whenever he could afterwards.

 

            Gehrman remained as students and others filed out.

 

            “Do you need help, old man?” Gehrman asked lightly, walking to the front of the room.

 

            “Old man?” Laurence asked incredulously.

 

            “I’m no fool. You act like you’re eighty with all that hobbling about you’ve been doing.” Gehrman replied, raising an eyebrow.

 

            Laurence frowned, wrinkling his nose and turning away, “I’m a bit sore is all.” he responded shortly.

 

            “From _what?_ ” Gehrman questioned, pulling his head back a little.

 

            Laurence huffed and did not answer. Gehrman considering extending his hand and digging further, but he knew Laurence would have none of it, and though Gehrman respected the man greatly he did not have the patience to deal with him when he shut off.

            Gehrman left Laurence, he’d _take_ none of it.

 

 

            “Have you noticed anything strange of the vicar?” Gehrman asked lightly once again, looking at Ludwig.

 

            Ludwig thought for a moment, shifting forward in a chair much too small for him, “Well, yes… but I do not know if we should speak of him like this.”

 

            “My only concern is for his health, Ludwig. I’m not one to gossip.” Gehrman huffed, giving the man a wiry smile.

 

            Ludwig’s eyes narrower, and he nodded, “He’d been retiring earlier and earlier, and he doesn’t seem to _want_ to walk.”

            Gehrman let out a sigh, leaning on his hand, “yes I have noticed as well. I tried to speak to him, but he wouldn’t answer me.”

 

            “Did you start out with a joke?” Ludwig asked, giving him a skeptical raise of his eyebrow.

 

            “Yes.” He replied.

 

            Ludwig made a flat face in response.

 

            “I didn’t need him thinking I was babying him—you know how he is with that.” Gehrman muttered. “ _Don’t treat me like a child, Gehrman, I’m a grown man, Gehrman_.” He huffed, tapping his forefinger and his thumb together mockingly.

 

            Ludwig sighed and nodded, turning away, causing the chair to squeak in reply. Ever since the split from Byrgenwerth, Laurence did not lend himself to assistence.

 

            “Perhaps if we _both_ go he’ll explain, just a bit.” Ludwig chirped hopefully, bringing his arm around Gehrman unexpectedly and pulling him out of his chair onto his feet.

            Gehrman knew not to complain, but he did feel light headed. Ludwig dragged him through the hallways with his toes hardly touching the ground for a majority of it.

 

            _Why must the man be so tall?_ He thought as Ludwig finally released him.

 

            Gehrman stepped through the door first, letting it creak a little bit to let their presence be known, but not enough so that it would wake the Vicar if he slept at his desk, which wasn’t a rare spectacle.

            The work room was full of various contraptions and diagrams and notes and books and specimens and the like, though Gehrman didn’t pay too much attention.

 

            “Laurence?” he heard Ludwig’s voice softly filter through the room, but no one replied.

 

            Gehrman entered Laurence’s sleeping chambers to find them disordered. The sheets of his bed were tossed about, like Laurence was fighting with them. Various things were knocked over and a few books littered the floor.

            Gehrman left the room, more puzzled than he had been beforehand.

 

            They shrugged at each other and turned around, about to leave when Laurence _did_ show up, one hand on the decorated wall. His skin was paler than usual; not in the normal sort of way.

 

            “What are you doing here?” He hissed, despite his eyes narrowing, they looked glazed over.

 

            “Vicar, forgive us, we were worried.” Ludwig answered immediately with a slightly bow of his head.

 

            “Worried?” Laurence asked, putting a hand over his heart, “I am only slightly ill is all.”

 

            Gehrman raised an eyebrow, “It’s a bit odd that someone who partakes of the blood would be ill.”

 

            Laurence frowned, biting the inside of his lip, not responding. Despite his almost meek appearance, he still withheld a fire, like some wounded dragon.

 

            “Forgive us, please.” Ludwig asked quietly, looking away.

 

            “Just leave me be, I’ll be fine.” Laurence sighed finally, taking the hand from his heart and placing it over his mouth,

 

            “I am simply irritable—you are not at fault—perhaps I am a bit stressed.” He gave them a half reassuring smile and walked off a bit more confidently.

 

            Gehrman nodded, but felt something sink into his stomach. It was doubt, but he did not believe Laurence was insincere—not entirely anyway. Was the blood failing? No, they’d have found that out before hand—possibly.

            He’d have to continue his observations, but he wouldn’t confront Laurence yet, and he couldn’t share with Ludwig either—bless the man but he was awfully optimistic at times and awfully not at others. He did not wish for either to get harmed, he could not act rashly himself either.

            Gehrman watched when he could. It was not often; he was busy. He had places to go and things to take care of, but he could return to the church, on occasion, and watch his vicar from a distance.

            He felt guilt set in whenever Laurence or Ludwig made conversation for him, because despite his attempts at being sneaky, he came off as being more reserved than usual. He’d endure the injury to his honor just long enough, but it certainly did not sit well with him.

 

            Gehrman was not a particularly dubious man, nor was he skilled at the art of stealth, but he could hide himself, somewhat. He was good enough to manage himself into the mostly empty lecture hall.

            He slipped into the room, waiting for the hall to become quiet, and listening closely for the sound of pen hitting parchment.

            It was quite dark in the great hall, with its high ceilings and narrow windows to let in sunlight, but the clouds gathered rains and darkened the room so thoroughly that hardly but a whisper of light patched through the windows.

            He left the door ajar, and only briefly made his way closer. He could see Laurence sitting dutifully at the desk, scribbling away. It reminded him of the early days, and for a brief moment Gehrman felt a flicker of a smile at his cheeks.

            He could imagine it—a somewhat less pale Laurence, with a more scruffy appearance and more wild eyes and more unkempt, but only slightly, explaining devotedly his plans to Gehrman.

 

            He slipped through the shadows, airing out his brief memories, squinting his eyes in the dark. Laurence had but one candle with him, but it was just enough light Gehrman dared not get closer than his present few yards away.

            The writing was chicken scratch to him, literally. He could not seem distinguish Laurence’s writing from scribbles, and it was not a matter of poor penmanship; it looked as though he’d been running the pen along, trying to form words but he simply could not.

            Laurence growled, slamming the pen down and crumbling the paper, tearing it in one motion, harshly disturbing the peace.

            He ran his hands through his hair, and at first Gehrman presumed Laurence was muttering to himself, but as he listened in closer it sounded more like snarling. It went on for a brief time, and then Laurence lowered his head onto the desk, silencing himself, and letting his hands fall.

            He sat motionless for a while, then suddenly twitched, nails digging into the wooden desk, making a grating sound. His fingers looked more like claws for a moment, twisting into the wood before relaxing as suddenly after they tore into the desk.

            Laurence raised his head after a time, placing a clean sheet of paper and beginning to write once more, this time with more success.

 

            He watched Laurence’s eyes as he backed away, further into darkness. Pain flickered like a candle, washing in his brownish green eyes with orange light. It flickered and danced frantically, and yet had a sort of soft feeling, being suppressed by the dark.

            Gehrman thought for a moment, realizing he could not quite leave the room. Laurence would notice most likely, and with Gehrman’s back turned Laurence would know what he'd been up to.

 

            _Forgive me old friend_ , he thought, screwing his courage, and beginning to step as though he entered the room.

 

            Laurence jumped, banging his knee under the table, halting a curse in his throat, “Oh, Gehrman. How is our hunter?” He asked.

 

            “I am… well.” Gehrman mumbled, stopping in front of the desk.

 

            Laurence squinted at him briefly, “Do you need something?”

 

            Gehrman fumbled for a moment, mind whirring, “Nothing—I was simply. I was simply—I wanted to see you is all.” He answered.

 

            Laurence seemed to lighten all at once, his expression softened and the pain died away, “Oh, I am glad to hear. I was worried that I had somehow offended you.”

 

            Gehrman stayed his frown, returning an awkward smile instead, “Not at all.”

 

            Laurence turned his head back to his work, “That’s good, yes. How have you been? I’ve been busy myself.”

 

            Gehrman felt his stomach twist, silently protesting, “I have been busy as well.” His voice came out constrained.

 

            Laurence’s eyes met Gehrman’s, eyebrows furrowing, “What troubles you?”

 

            Gehrman would have laughed had it not been inappropriate; Laurence was surely a man of many inconsistencies—do not receive help, but was sure and ready to give it when he _noticed_.

 

            “Well—I’ve just been contemplating. Things in the past—things that trouble me is all. Forgive me, old friend.” He replied after taking time to consider his words.

 

            Laurence stood up, walking around the desk to put a hand on his shoulder. Gehrman resisted the urge to jump or pull away as the guilt made a cold fire in his stomach, “The past is in the past, don’t worry. Things will work out, I’m sure.”

 

            He gave Gehrman a soft smile, then went back to his desk with a brief bit of effort.

 

            Gehrman nodded, running his hand over the back of his neck. He felt so utterly and overly wrong, and as they made a bit more conversation he felt yet more so wrong until he nearly felt sick. Laurence did not notice, and Gehrman left with a short goodbye.

 

           

 

            “You’ve been withdrawn.” Ludwig commented as Gehrman began to eat, not that he was particularly hungry after his encounter with Laurence.

 

            “I’ve been thinking.” He replied shortly. It was hard enough lying in Laurence’s face, he did not wish to injure Ludwig as well.

 

            Ludwig tilted his head, “Thinking? What could you possibly be thinking about?”

 

            “The past, and I’ve already gotten a lecture from Laurence.” He replied.

 

            Ludwig was silent for a moment, “You’re still worried, aren’t you?”

 

            Gehrman cursed in his mind; of course if anyone were to find him in a lie, it’d be Ludwig.

 

            “Of course I am still worried.” He huffed, putting his utensils down.

 

            “You must trust in the vicar. I understand you are skeptical, as am I, but you must trust his insight.”

 

            “It is not his insight I do not trust.” Gehrman folded his hand together.

 

            Ludwig sighed, rubbing his temples, “Gehrman, I know you. You are a good man, and an honest man. Lying and deceiving is unbecoming of you. I do not know what you are up to exactly, but please, if not for his or my sake, for your own I’d suggest you stop before you get hurt, or someone else is.” He replied.

 

            Gehrman felt his blood boiling, aggravation building in his chest like a sort of hot stone. He did not appreciate being lectured again, nor did he appreciate getting called out—he had every right to be worried, he was not going to let some foolish pride get in the way if something was wrong.

 

            Gehrman felt his hands slam onto the table, and his chair screech as he stood abruptly, “The man is a prideful fool and I will _not_ let his self-destructive tendencies get in the way. If you’d like to sit around and let that happen, then fine by me, but I am going to save his ass before he has an aneurysm and dies!” His voice quaked, feeling his voice rise much more than he was used to.

 

            He could not stop himself—he’d been too stressed, too angry. The words fell out of his mouth like venom, and he watched Ludwig shrink, eyes wide like a very large but very frightened mouse.

            He could feel the accusation strike him like a javelin, words piercing Ludwig’s more gentle nature.

 

            Ludwig closed his mouth, swiftly parting of his chair, and left without another word, leaving Gehrman alone in the dining room.

            If he didn’t want his food before, he certainly didn’t want it then.

 

 

            Gehrman did not talk to either Ludwig or Laurence for a while after that. He knew it was wrong, but he did not wish to confront either of them (even if Laurence did not know) and so he avoided both of them.

            He skirted around doors and buildings, but he couldn’t avoid the church. There were semi-regular evening conferences he had to attend to, and of course the Holy Blade would be there.

 

            “Ludwig.” He said quietly.

 

            “Gehrman.” Ludwig replied.

 

            They bowed their heads at one another, leaving a very confused Laurence in the middle.

 

            They spoke at the table, discussing matters Gehrman had a mixture of levels of interest in. The short, curt replies between himself and Ludwig became more apparent as Laurence spoke less and watched more, becoming befuddled but saying nothing. He seemed to grow wearier as well.

 

            “Well, it appears there are some unresolved pressures, so we shall resume this conference later.” Laurence sighed and stood.

 

            Various church members and officials left, leaving Gehrman, who did not want to leave in fear of being even more of a coward, and Ludwig.

 

            He stood and walked over, and Ludwig stood up as well, looking down at him with a distant look in his eyes.

 

            “I’m sorry.” He mumbled, “I should not have lost my temper at you, you were only… concerned, just as I was, and I should not have shouted at you, and I should not have been snooping around.”

 

            Ludwig nodded, “It’s alright, and I know where you came from. It must be truly distressing if you lose _your_ temper.” He left off with a grin spreading on his face.

 

            Gehrman sighed, relief leaving his constricted lungs all at once, “Thank you for your forgiveness friend.”

 

            Ludwig swung an arm around Gehrman’s shoulder, pushing him towards the door and speaking broadly, half chastising him and half not.

            Gehrman was thankful, but a certain fear was still straining within him. He could not place why, but he knew he was still concerned. Though he apologized to Ludwig, he was still resolved to find out what was wrong with Laurence.


	2. Goodnight, Vicar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gehrman confronts the truth of many aspects of his life And It SUUUUCKS.

Everything ached.

 

            The pain was deep in his bones, a hollow feeling that followed him everywhere no matter what he did.

            He was always tired, always exhausted, and yet the pain kept him awake. He tossed and turned but not even his finely crafted bed and soft sheets could help him.

            Between the pain there were bouts of times he could hardly read or speak. Words simply disappeared from his lips, and he could nothing more than grunt or growl in frustration. It was not a matter of tongue, but that he could not remember what words were—as though he was trying to speak a foreign language.

            He was semi-grateful Gehrman and Ludwig appeared to be ready to strike each other during the meeting, as his voice began to die away. He walked hastily out of the room and left to have some time alone.

            He needed to gather the dust, to sweep his mind back together again, and for that he needed silence.

            Though his mind felt foggy, he made his way towards the altar to pray. He hoped so deeply he could rid himself of this illness, perhaps with a bit of guidance he could make the pain finally cease.

            The large altar area was empty, much to the gratitude of Laurence. His knees and back complained as he kneeled, a deep ache spreading up his spine to his ribs.

            He made a constricted cough, forcing the pain out briefly, then bowed his head.

 

            The silence rolled over him, insulating him. It was just him and his mind and with no distractions he was able to try and sort, but as he extended his mind to gather his thoughts they fluttered away like paper burning, its fragments swirling into the air.

            The pain became deeper, like a knife wedged into his skull. He tightened his jaw, and growled.

 

 _I am a man._ He thought, setting his jaw forward and ignoring the shooting pains crackling in his ribs.

 

_I will not be stopped by pain nor woe._

 

* * *

 

 

 

            Gehrman took Ludwig’s hand, “I fear the worst.”

            Ludwig gave him a grave look, eyes darkening.

 

            “The blood is poisoning the Vicar.” The words fell from hushed lips, Gehrman drawing Ludwig downward.

 

            “What? No. That cannot be. Our Vicar is a holy man, surely the blood would not…” Ludwig started, but did not finish his sentence.

 

            “Holy or not.” Gehrman stated, almost simply, his voice darkening as he whispered.

 

            “We—we must tell him, now. He'll know what to do, he knows the blood best. If we catch him before he…” Ludwig trailed off again.

 

            They set out forwardly, Gehrman’s heart beat wildly in his chest as the worst assumptions danced around his mind.

 

_He's going to be a beast and there is nothing you can do._

_He is a fool, but you are even more so._

 

            Gehrman shoved them aside, taking the burial blade with a heavy heart, and it felt as though his own hands resisted its touch.

            Ludwig did not speak the entire time as they walked. His rough boots clacked against the floor, but Gehrman could hardly even hear him breathe. Very little light filtered through the clouds that night, only brief illuminations and rare candles lit their way.

 

            “Where is the Vicar?” Ludwig asked darkly, and by either fear or respect he was answered.

 

            Gehrman felt himself walking faster with every step. A horrible, sickening dread flooding his stomach. It sent shivers up and down his spine, made his knees feel weak and wobbly, and his heart raced so rapidly in his chest he could hear it.

            Their presence cleared those in front of them, as was the presence of the holy blade and the burial scythe. Gehrman never wanted to wield it within the church, and he hoped that that night was not going to be the night that called for it.

 

            Would he have to put his friend down before he turned? Would Laurence attack them? What if he was wrong?

 

            His face felt flushed with blood, warming his chilled bones as he shivered. He was not afraid of the hunt—no, he very much was—but he was more so afraid of being wrong. He could not strike his friend, his Vicar, and he could not do so with Ludwig right behind him.

 _Forgive me,_ he repeated over and over in his mind. If he was wrong, he’d be struck down with the same fury of the church as all others were—and Gehrman had seen what the church could do. If Gehrman murdered the Vicar and turned the Holy Blade against him, he knew he’d receive a far greater punishment than any other had.

 

            But what if he wasn’t?

 

            Despite every part of his body telling him to turn around for his and Ludwig’s wellbeing, he set forward.

 

_Forgive me._

 

            They stopped in front of the high gate into the altar room. Gehrman placed a hand on its decorated front, eyes running around the reliefs and ornaments.

            He pushed the door through, stepping into the dark Grand Cathedral. Candles illuminated the holy medium, the shrine glowing as beautifully as ever. Laurence was knelt dutifully in the center of the room, Gehrman could even hear him mumbling through prayer.

            “Vicar?” Ludwig’s voice disturbed the smothering silence in the room.

            Laurence’s hunched over form rose for a moment, lifting his head, but then he lowered it again, and did not respond.

            He continued muttering, mumbling words Gehrman could not hear—his voice too soft, too shaky.

 

            “Laurence.” Ludwig said, in a more questioning tone, but still soft, still kind. Gehrman advanced gently.

 

            Laurence did not move at all, but he could hear him stop mumbling, voice replaced by a sort of raspy breathing, like he was choking.

            He seemed to hunch over more, coughing, wheezing. Gehrman almost took another tentative step forward, but his mind slowly began to work through the realization. He’d seen this before, but the reality did not seep and pour into his mind, not yet.

            It was as though chilling water was rushing from a mountain, seeping into a dry lakebed, when the truth finally arrived in his mind.

           

            Gehrman could focus on nothing else. The light of the candles, Ludwig’s shouting as others, curious or foolish, arrived at the door. He was too close, and it was at that moment he should have run away, but he could not.

 

            “Do not enter!” Ludwig may have said, Gehrman wasn’t paying attention.

 

            He watched, but he did not want to.

 

            A sort of hollow sound filled the room, an oppressive, monolithic sound, only disturbed by Laurence’s pained breathing, as if the man was having more and more difficult doing so. Every breath, every exhale, seemed painful and difficult.

            And then he screamed. Gehrman had heard many a man scream as their life was torn away from them by beasts, but this was no scream of death. This was but pure agony, raw, a fundamentally different level of pain roared out of his throat, so much more intense and real, so painfully real.

 

            Laurence screamed and screamed and screamed.

 

            His voice reigned within the cathedral. It did not shatter the monolithic silence, it decimated it. It broke it so loudly and destructively it felt as though the world would never be silent again.

            His clawed into his own arms, nails digging into his flesh. He screamed, and drew his bloodied hands away and slammed them into the ground, clawing them into the stone.

 

            His screams began to warp, to change. It took on a cacophonous tone as human and beast began to come beside each other, closer than they should have been, not hostile—but no longer passive. His human side was quickly losing a war it was not truly fighting.

            Gehrman could never process the transformation, but he recognized what he saw; skin split, the old human skin tearing itself apart but remaining as new, darker flesh took its place. As skin tore, making a sickening ripping sound, it formed the coarse fur in some sections, but not others.

            He could hear the cracking of bones, of Laurence’s jaw, as bones split and shed and reformed, and Laurence still screamed.

 

            Agony, pure agony, and the stench of defiled blood made the room feel wholly impure. It filled Gehrman's heart with fear and nearly made him lose the contents of his stomach.

 

            Laurence stopped screaming, and a raspy, broken breath took its place, but the silence had not been restored.

 

            It looked almost like most beasts born of holy men, but it dwarfed any in size. Its proportions were massive, with a head big enough to eat a man whole, and if it somehow stood upright its head would knock into the high ceiling above; but it could not stand, not truly. It got onto its feet, its awkward hind legs sticking forward to balance.

 

            Gehrman, for once in a very long time, accepted the fear of the hunt back into his heart. He felt a deep pain within his heart, but he could not focus on it, because the beast would tear him to shreds if he gave it the chance.

 

            It had more than the means to do so.

 

            But in a way, Gehrman nearly could not bring himself. He fought, but it felt like he was merely going through the motions. It did not feel real; the weight of the scythe felt distant, the sound of Ludwig's shouts felt foggy and far away.

 

            All he could hear was the warped screams of Laurence.

 

_Forgive me._

 

            Laurence raised its gnarled claws in the air, almost as if praying, then smashed them downwards, but Gehrman could not react. It was only by chance Ludwig tore him by his collar, just barely out of the way.

            As the few other hunters on hand joined them, many were not as lucky.

 

            He watched a man get turned to nothing more than red paste.

 

            He watched another get snapped up in Laurence's great jaws—but Laurence merely spat them out, letting them bleed to death, their bodies were snapped and torn in half, too broken to use the blood.

 

 

            Laurence held its head at times, swiping broadly, blindly, but those claws wrenched the blade out of his hands, and Gehrman scrambled to recover.

 

            It took hours, near the entire night, for him to finally cut down Laurence.

 

            The beast fought with such fear, such desperation that as its life slipped away it still made attempts to kill him. It laid on its side, kicking someone who'd gotten too close spinning across the floor like a stone across a pond.

 

            Gehrman felt the silence permeate the room, his mind, as he raised the burial scythe. Laurence could hardly lift its head, but he could feel him trying to scream.

 

            He severed Laurence's head.

 

_Forgive me._

 

“What happened the vicar?” One horror stricken man asked, grabbing Gehrman’s arm as he left.

 

            And then the rest followed suit. Terrified clerics questions melted together, swirling around Gehrman’s head.

 

But Gehrman could not answer them—he could not admit that perhaps the blood was tainted, that it was evil, even though there was a dark place in his heart that knew that it might have been, and he did _not_ believe Laurence was evil, or impure. Laurence was a good man, he did not deserve his fate—and yet Gehrman could not say that the blood had not done this to him either.

            But above all his confusion, above all his silence, was a deep sense of guilt. He should have known; he knew what beasts were before, he knew what men became—he should have recognized it the moment Laurence began to weaken, to sicken.

            Perhaps Gehrman did not want to admit that the most holy man in the entire city was capable of becoming such a wretched beast— the most wretched beast of all no less.

 

            Ludwig stood by his side the entire time, mobbed as well, but he only stared distantly outwards, onwards to the great dark sky.

 

            “What happened to the Vicar?” Someone asked Gehrman again, and he froze.

 

            “He…” Gehrman felt his throat close up, like a knot tied around his neck.

 

            He could not lie. He was tired of lying, tired of hiding—he saw what it’d done to Laurence and what had happened to those who’d fought the beast Laurence became—he could not lie—he was so tired of it.

            He shook in his boots, clinging to the burial scythe as though it were his lifeline. His nails dug into the wood, but he immediately recoiled upon remembering the way those bloody hands hours ago dug into their owners flesh.

            Quickly, many more questioned Laurence’s holiness. They questioned him, the church, if he was sinful, if the blood was evil, if Ludwig and Gehrman knew about it.

 

            “The vicar was not unrighteous, no.” Ludwig spoke, his voice was dark, official. The questions subsided nearly instantly, listening to the Holy Blade.

 

            “Our Vicar…” Ludwig began, pacing forward to stand in front of all, “was poisoned. We believe that someone tampered with his blood.” Gehrman found himself staring at Ludwig with the same wide eyes as the crowd.

 

            “He was becoming ill of course, so the perpetrator—who we will not divulge as this time so we may apprehend them later—gave him tainted blood. Gehrman and I went here to warn Vicar Laurence, but we learned too late, but we do have a suspect as to who may have caused this—they may have even made him ill outright.” Ludwig finished.

 

            _What clever deception, Ludwig._ Gehrman thought, narrowing his eyes.

 

            He was not shocked, but it struck a certain chord within Gehrman. Something deep down, within that same dark place in his heart, he found his… doubt within the church roused again, stirred like some… stone buried deep in mud and filth at the bottom of a river.

            He knew Ludwig to be an honest man—almost annoyingly so—and yet on a dime he had already set up a scheme in which he could place the blame on someone else. No need for actual investigation—just find someone who could become a scapegoat and it’d be neatly swept under the rug.

            Just like any other problem. Just like any other cleric turned beast.

 

            Gehrman’s heart hurt too deeply to argue, not now, not for a long time. He needed to lick his wounds and scurry away, to heal his heart on his own. He felt disgusted by Ludwig’s deft hand, and ashamed that he did not realize soon enough.

 

            He walked off into the night with hardly another word.

 

_Forgive me._

 


	3. Nothing Has Changed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gehrman says goodbye to his friend and seeks the dream.

            He went through the motions of life. He hunted, he spoke, he signed documents, and he did this-that-and-the-other-thing for the church. It was mindless, but simple.

            Gehrman was tired, a deep fatigue in his bones, but no amount of rest would fill the gap between his exhausted mind and his body.

 

            It was late when he examined himself in the mirror, lifting up his shirt, tracing a hand over the many scars that littered his body. There were many old ones, many new ones, but the most apparent one wasn’t really a scar yet.

            The giant beast had ripped his scythe out of his hands, he could even weeks later clearly remember the motion, but it’d also nicked his arm, nearly tearing off his wrist had he not taken one more step backwards.

            He traced a finger gently along the outline, the short but deep slashing cut. It was numb to pain at this point and mostly healed, but he could nearly feel the exhaustion emanating from this point. A nagging, tired feeling arising from the dark red strike.

            Gehrman narrowed his eyes, squinting at the slash. It shouldn’t have caused him this much misery—he’d been hurt far worse before.

            He grumbled and went back to sleep, but rest would not come to him easily.

 

 _How could he?_ Gehrman asked himself, staring at the empty ceiling.

 

_How could he lie about the vicar so flippantly? So easily?_

Gehrman resolved to confront Ludwig about this. He did not know when or how, but he knew he could not run away, not again.

 

 

            Gehrman asked Ludwig to meet him on the great bridge overlooking the city. It was a beautiful sight normally, as the sun was high in the sky, illuminating everything that happened in Yharnam with a sunny disposition. Gehrman only felt his heart begin to beat faster, his thoughts milling about.

            Ludwig met him early into the afternoon, jogging out.

 

            “Forgive me friend, I was late.” He was breathing hard, but still smiled.

 

            Gehrman turned slowly, sighing, “I know.” He responded.

 

            Ludwig’s smile disappeared within an instant, lips turning into a slight frown, “What’s wrong?”

 

            Gehrman meditated on the question for a moment, feeling the anger rise in his chest, but he would not shout again—Ludwig needed more composure than that.

 

            “Was it that easy? To hide the vicar’s circumstances? To sweep it all under the rug just like most problems in the church?” Gehrman questioned, still leaning on the rail.

 

            Ludwig stared at him, appearing blindsided by the question, “What did you want me to say? Tell the whole church ‘Oh yes, Vicar Laurence was really a terrible man all along’, what do you think would happened then?” Ludwig huffed.

 

            Gehrman turned, furrowing his eye brows, but reducing his glare, “That is not what I’m asking you, Ludwig. I’m asking you if you found it easy to treat Laurence like a rogue beast, like all the other clerics who lose their minds.”

 

            Ludwig opened and closed his mouth like a gasping fish, starting sentences but never following them through, before finally saying, “That is my _job_ , Gehrman. Hunter for the church yes, but Laurence entrusted me with making sure no issue would damage the church’s reputation.”

 

            Gehrman let a long breath out of his nose and sparks of anger tried to light a fire within him, “Yes, I understand.” He stamped them out.

 

            Ludwig looked around for a moment, as if looking for a way to escape if need be, or perhaps a way to kill Gehrman discreetly.

 

            “I could not let Laurence’s lifework go to waste, Gehrman. What would happen if, suddenly, the public believed the blood to be evil? Or that the church was? There’d be panic, uproar. You and I, everyone we care about within the church, would probably be killed or have to flee.” Ludwig explained, putting a hand on Gehrman’s shoulder.

 

            Gehrman gently placed his own hand on Ludwig’s, turning around to look the man in the eyes, “But what if the blood _is_ evil, Ludwig?”

 

            Ludwig’s face turned in disgust and disbelief, eyes widening, but he bared his teeth in a snarl, “You tell me _I_ am somehow dishonoring Laurence! Yet you have the gall—to—” Ludwig stopped himself, the hand on Gehrman’s shoulder suddenly tightening, fingers curled like claws.

            Gehrman felt his heart begin to beat faster, part of his brain telling him to get out of there, that he was too close to Ludwig. The man had every capability of tossing Gehrman over the rail, and who would question the Holy Blade?

            But Gehrman resisted.

 

            “Look at yourself, Ludwig! Look at the city! Look at the beasts that roam the night—what if they are a product of the blood? What if they’re not just bad people? Laurence wasn’t a bad man—we both know that, so why would he become a beast? Why?” Gehrman put both of his hands on Ludwig’s shoulders, reaching up.

 

            If Ludwig wanted to throw him over the rail, now would’ve been the time. Gehrman braced himself for the worst.

 

            Ludwig hissed, eyes filled with fire. He yanked his hands away from Gehrman, balling them into fists. Gehrman could see the tendons in Ludwig’s hands tense.

 

            Gehrman was certain of two things about Ludwig, One; that he was an honest man—or at least, he had tried to be, and Two; that he did not shout, never in anger at least.

 

            “I will not hear anymore heresy Gehrman!” He shouted in his face, close and loud enough that Gehrman could feel heat in his voice, as if he were about to breathe fire.

 

            “Leave! Get out of my sight!” He shoved Gehrman away, and for a brief moment Gehrman feared for his life.

 

            Ludwig stuck a finger to the exit, looming over Gehrman, **_“LEAVE!”_** He said so strongly that Gehrman’s legs weakened.

 

            Gehrman scurried away, feeling terror grip his heart. He felt like some frightened rabbit, and no less a coward than before.

 

 

            Gehrman did not speak to Ludwig for a long time. He observed him occasionally, but he refused to address him whenever he could. He followed Ludwig’s orders without dispute, and could feel—but did not respond to—Ludwig’s icy glares boring into his skull.

            Gehrman did not protest when Ludwig finally elected his scapegoat—some innocent man at the wrong place at the wrong time, who had no alibi and no one to fight for them. The church tore them to shreds.

            Gehrman bitterly thought Ludwig would designate himself vicar, but instead the title passed onto someone else without Ludwig’s hands being delved into the business.

 

 _Like few other things as of late._ Gehrman thought to himself, resentment growing in his chest. It made a heavy, boiling feeling high in his ribs, but he resisted every urge to yell at Ludwig or speak his mind.

            Gehrman did not know the new vicar very well, but he did not wish to. He did not wish to reside within the church at all.

 

            For a while, Gehrman simply believed that Ludwig’s anger would reduce to embers; that they could speak once more—but Gehrman only grew more afraid of the man, and Ludwig made no motion to speak to him.

            Gehrman was even more so terrified of his fate _if_ he left the church. Ludwig could have outed him, may have told the whole church of his questioning of the blood. After watching that innocent soul murdered on the church’s behalf, he did not wish to suffer the same fate. Ludwig was a kind man—but a vindictive one. There’d always be some sort of revenge, even if Gehrman didn’t always believe it’d been justified.

            Gehrman endured the church, and found a sliver of peace within the workshop. At the very least, the hunters under him did not glare him down. He had a hard time being nothing more than a teacher however. He did not mind though; he enjoyed what company he had, with his workshop so tucked away into the city. He wasn’t sure if he’d made many friends—not in the same way that he had and Ludwig had become companions—but he valued them highly, almost too highly.

            His repugnance towards Ludwig waned to apathy; he could not let his fear of the man shackle him any longer. Ludwig seemed to notice this, as he simply regarded Gehrman coldly and went on his way.

            But even years after their divergence, Gehrman still fondly recalled the memories they’d shared. It briefly filled him with a warm feeling, a honeyed kindness satisfying a cavity, but it gave way to the truth not soon after. A pain, a longing for the past, resided within the sweet memories and it ached in his chest so terribly he felt like crying.

 

            _“The past is in the past.”_ Laurence’s voice softly entered his head.

 

            Nonetheless, nostalgia burned so deeply within him, he did not want to let go. But he needed to confront Ludwig if he was to ever even possibly start to pick up where he left off.

             

            But Ludwig, and the entire church, was truly sealed from him. They’d walled themselves off with the burning of Old Yharnam, and there was nothing he could do—but perhaps there was. He was technically a member of the church, and he could just sneak in or something, probably.

            But Gehrman did not wish to confront Ludwig. Every ounce of him told him to turn away, that no good would come from his meeting. He agonized over it for a few days, but he knew that it would solve nothing. He had known—for a long time—that any more time spent fighting with this decision would result in him or Ludwig being hurt.

            Gehrman waited until the church finally reopened its grand doors, but he did not storm in straight away out of any fondness for the organization, it came more or less from a wish to respect Laurence’s wishes.

 

 _“Please be kind to the church. Many people within only wish to do well_.” Laurence had said, taking Gehrman’s hand softly, but his eyes full of fire. Gehrman nodded, then. The man may have been just a scholar at the time, but he did not lend himself to being trifled with.

 

            Gehrman set his jaw as he entered Ludwig’s chambers. He could remember them near perfectly, but it felt colder now. No warmth spread between the walls, and the wood seemed to have darkened considerably. Ludwig kept the place firmly cloaked as well, with his curtains still drawn, preferring to do whatever he was doing by candlelight apparently.

 

            “Ludwig.” Gehrman said softly.

 

            “Gehrman.” Ludwig replied numbly, looking up from his desk.

 

            “It has been some time.” Gehrman commented. His voice hardly disturbed the looming silence in the room.

 

            “It has. Do you still believe the blood to be evil?” Ludwig asked briskly.

 

            _Right to the point as always_ , Gehrman thought.

 

            “I do not know. But I wish to—maybe, I... I don’t know. I wish to see my friend once again, and that is all. I understand that I… I was not, that we—we did not leave on good footing, and I should have—I know that I…” Gehrman fumbled with words, but they seemed to flow through his hands like quicksilver.

 

The recent business with Old Yharnam had muddied his beliefs even more than they had been more a long time. To burn an entire city—to murder that many people—who had called for such an act? But he did not come here to question Ludwig or himself, so he shook the thoughts aside as if dusting a blanket.

 

            Ludwig considered him for a moment, standing to full height. Gehrman took a step backwards, anxiety filling his chest, making electricity jump up and down his spine and his arms.

 

            “Forgive me, old friend.” Ludwig asked gently.

 

            Gehrman tilted his head, “What? Why?”

 

            Ludwig tented his hands, standing by the desk, refusing eye contact, “It is not your fault, and it was never a matter of… revenge or anything like that. But the church no longer needs service of guarded hunters.” He answered.

 

            Gehrman opened his mouth to speak, but he found himself having a hard time forming words, “There is always need for hunters.”

 

            “The church is enlisting the service of the people. We can no longer course amongst the shadows to hunt, now that everyone knows of the beasts and the threat. We must bolster the ranks.” Ludwig explained gravely, it seemed almost constructed, practiced. He appeared almost entirely hesitant, but his response was nonetheless straightforward.

 

            “They’ll be slaughtered.” Gehrman whispered.

 

            Ludwig looked upon Gehrman, confirming his words in silence. Gehrman was not angry—not yet—but terrified. Terrified of many things; for the people, for himself, of Ludwig, of the church, for Ludwig. A deep seated terror that split down his mind, filling him with a desperate horror.

 

            “So, the workshop is just… closed? Is that all? Is that really it?” Gehrman asked, taking another step towards the door.

 

            “I…” Ludwig began, but he turned his head away to the floor, and squeezed his eyes shut.

 

            “Forgive me.”

 

            “Forgive me as well, Ludwig.” Gehrman murmured.

 

            The door made an unfriendly sound as it creaked close. Gehrman caught one brief glance of Ludwig, and then left him alone.

 

           

 

            Gehrman saw Ludwig but once afterwards.

 

 

 

            His hands clutched the cord tightly. It was cold on the outside, but he could feel life within. Power beyond explanation humming deep within.

            His fingers curled around it, considering for a moment. A brief second of reconsideration, a fleeting moment of pause.

            He scoffed at this, and clutched it tighter.

 

            A cold laugh rang from his throat, echoing in the catacombs distantly.

 

 _I will protect my hunters whether you like it or not._ He'd committed.

 

            No matter the consequences, he would provide a safe haven for his hunters and himself. He would not let fools be the end of all he'd—all that his friend—had built. He would not allow the hunters to be so easily thrown aside—hunters’ hunted beast, not men. Men were to go about their day without fear in their hearts.

            It had taken him far too long to come to the conclusion—to seek the fragment of the Old Ones at all. Dark places within his heart whispered to him it would lead him to ruin, but he didn’t care. He sought some sort of way to convene with them, and had found it after countless days going through all information he had on hand and all information he’d retained from Laurence.

            He let the ecstasy of the moment enter his voice, cackling to himself. To briefly let his mind come undone, to revel in his victory without any sort of consciousness tearing it away.

            He composed himself, putting the cord away. Gehrman needed to square a few things away before he completed his task.

 

 

            He returned to the abandoned workshop, glancing to the pale porcelain doll. He could try—one more time, right? No. It would not… replace what had been lost. He cast the thought aside and travelled towards one of the many empty cabinets.

            He placed it inside gently, covering it with a scrap of cloth and covering his tracks, dusting around. He didn't wish to have it stolen, and he couldn't ensure he wouldn't be searched.

            The church was so keen to cast the workshop aside anyway, they wouldn't look back inside. The church never looked back always forward, like Laurence had planned—but both Laurence and the church had failed on some level to acknowledge the past.

 

            He left, making his way. The crisp night air began to sink onto the city, but Gehrman was performing a different type of hunt.

            He still killed beasts, but that was not his objective. He gathered the attention of a few, some who remembered him and some who had heard of him.

 

_“The old man's still on the hunt?” One whispered in the shadows._

_“All alone no less.”_

 

            He huffed and walked off. He needed to find an old friend, but he knew it'd be unlikely he'd find him on the hunt, but he wasn't traveling that route.

 

            They were the church's executioners, clothed in black with shrouded faces. He wasn't sure if they'd be conducting the actual hunt, but he'd search anyway. He figured they’d know the most about whose where, but he also guessed that any of the church’s hunters would do.

            He moved amongst the shadows, watching a single executioner go on their ‘patrol’ or whatever the hell else they called it, and waited until an opportunity arose. They exited the house without blood on their hands for the fifth time in a row, and they looked significantly more relaxed than others on the hunt. Tranquil, calm, perhaps fatigued.

            Gehrman stepped from the alley he'd been observing one from, shot once to gather their attention and swept forward in an attack. It'd been awhile since he'd fought another hunter, but they were shocked enough at his presence he disarmed them and knocked them onto the ground.

 

            He pressed his boot at the base of their neck, his eyes narrowed. He felt anger simmer low in his chest, but he expressed it coldly. He did not wish to become distracted, not on the night of the hunt.

 

            “You're still alive?” She asked with wide eyes.

 

            “No, I'm dead.” He huffed.

 

            The black robed woman grunted, “What’d you want? If you wanted me dead then I would be, am I wrong?” She asked.

 

            “Where is the Holy Blade Ludwig?” He cut her short, he didn’t have time to address her question. Too many beast about, and he didn’t want to delay his plans.

 

            She stared at him for a moment then questioned, “How should I know? He went mad and ran off.”

 

            Gehrman pressed further on her neck, feeling anger lick at his lips, savage words anxiously awaiting to be spoken, but he did not allow them out.

 

            “Tell me what you know, that's all I ask.” He let his anger out in a long breath, lifting his leg as to not crush the hunter’s windpipe.

 

            They struggled for a moment, but relented, “He went mad—started laughing to himself, and then one day he snapped and attacked some people in the church, screamed about the blood. Then he ran off—some people tracked him but they got killed too.”

 

            Any sort of anger residing in Gehrman’s heart faded within an instant. He did not want to believe what he had heard, and cursed himself for being so childish. He’d wanted to badly to yell at Ludwig, to have someone to blame. Ludwig had not once reached out to him from the day Gehrman left his office, and Gehrman was only left with distaste for the man.

            He’d cursed Ludwig’s name, and then only desperately wanted to claw it all back, to rake it all away. He knew—that he and Ludwig had a falling out, but the man did not deserve this, and no one deserved to deal with a beast of such woe.

            He lifted his boot some more, feeling the chilling water begin to submerge him again. A sense of realization beginning to drain in once more, but more slowly this time.

 

            “Where?” He asked, lowering his voice.

 

“One of the older cathedrals, not far from the main church. Can you get your foot off my neck now?” She asked, hands ringing around his peg-leg. She tried shoving him off, without success however.

 

He lifted his foot, feeling anxiety build in his chest. He muttered his thanks and ran off into the night, leaving a confused hunter behind.

 

 

            Gehrman found the church quite easily. It’d become abandoned, but he could smell a rotting odor originating from it. Out front there was patches of blood, streaked across the stone pavement. Long since dry, but it was still quite a copious amount to be disheartening.

            He ignored the caustic smell that assaulted his senses, ignoring the stench of blood, and allowed himself to focus on the entrance gate of the church. The tall wooden doors were ornately decorated, and as he placed his hand on the reliefs, he felt a shiver go up his arm.

 

            Nothing had changed. He was exactly where he was all some many years ago.

 

            He closed his eyes, feeling his nails bite into the wood.

 

 _How many other friends shall I have to put down?_ He asked himself, but a part of his mind bit back, _I don’t have many left._

How many hunters? How many clerics? How many men who were simply no more than men?

 

            Too many, too many. He promised even more thoroughly that he would continue with his plan—so long as the cord was safe.

 

            He pushed through the doors, stepping into the cold and dark. Dust filtered through the air, illuminated by streams of moonlight travelling through broken windows. Blood streaked across the floor, dark and dry.

            He allowed himself time to gather his thoughts, to tie his mind back together. He could not allow himself to become forgetful; Ludwig had already killed before, and Gehrman could not count on their distant attachment to keep him safe.

            He walked through the dappled shadows, stepping into what may have been a sort of main area, maybe a place of prayer. It was quite large, not as detailed as some other ministries, but still held the same adornments that were characteristic. It had a staircase towards the back that its tallest was about a man’s height.

            There was more blood on the floor, but now there were bodies to accompany it. They’d been rended in chunks and slashed in half, and they stared distant with pale eyes and pale skin. They must have not swelled like most bodies did because they’d been so divided that any gases were simply let free, evidenced by the terrible stench in the room. He could no longer ignore the disgusting odor of blood and the various stages of decaying flesh.

            Gehrman paused in the center of the room, looking up the steps.

 

            “Ludwig?” He asked, his voice echoing in cathedral, answered by no one. His own voice nearly assaulted him, hitting him sharply. Perhaps the hunter had lied, perhaps Ludwig was already dead.

 

            He almost hoped such was the case.

 

            “Do my eyes deceive me?” He heard someone reply, stepping into view at the top of the stairs.

 

            Gehrman had seen a great many things that had disgusted him, that had repulsed him in life. He’d seen plenty of horrifying beasts, and as he’d delved deep within the history of the blood, he’d learned more than he’d ever wished to learn. The state Ludwig was in, however, rivalled some of the more disgusting things he had seen.

            It was not as though Gehrman hadn’t known that men did not simply transform within in an instant—not usually—but he never paid any heed to those who were not already malformed.

 

            “Is that a familiar face I see?” A voice entered the silent void once more, Gehrman froze.

 

            It was a bit raspier than he remembered, but it was very acquainted with.

 

            “Gehrman?” The voice asked again, soft, gentle, but ragged.

 

            Gehrman’s eyes widened as the voice became tangible. A man stood at the top of the stairways, a vast glowing blade illuminating him. Even from the distance between them, Gehrman knew that he was filthy. Blood and dirty stained white church garb. The clothing itself was in tatters, detailed cape faded, its edges beginning to fall apart.

            He could almost not believe his eyes.

 

            “Ludwig, is that really you?” he tested, taking a tentative step forward.

 

            The man before him was hardly a man at all. Its eyes were pale and yellowing, with one beginning to blind, and its hair was tanged and wild. There was a large sore between its neck and its shoulder, but it appeared less like a wound and more like… growth of some sort.

            His skin looked like it was started to rot on him, turning a dark red color like he was bruising.

 

            “Really me? Yes. Yes it is really me. Is it really you, however? I can’t see you very well.” Ludwig answered.

 

            Gehrman stepped until he was a foot away from Ludwig, and felt a great sense of pity fill him. It hurt; His heart ached, like something was shattering within him. Horror turned away, allowing a clarity to form within Gehrman’s mind; Ludwig was alone, shambling in the dark, losing his mind, and Gehrman had let him. Gehrman should have been there—he should have always been there.

 

            Nothing had changed.

 

            The man looked like he was in a great deal of pain, as he seemed to always grimace, to constantly tighten his muscles as a way to force air of his lungs.

            He looked even taller than Gehrman remembered, but it was until Gehrman examined below the injured expression on Ludwig’s face, he felt another wave of guilt hit him once more.

            Ludwig long ago discarded his shoes, for his ankles had begun to shift and move upwards, and he was essentially walking on his toes.

 

            “Yes, it’s me Ludwig. What are you… doing here?” Gehrman asked carefully.

 

            Ludwig laughed hysterically; it started like Gehrman had told him a joke, but had grown until he was sobbing, almost wailing.

            Gehrman stood, his stomach tightening. He didn’t know if he could trust Ludwig in the state he was in, and as Ludwig leaned more heavily on the holy blade, sobbing, he found the man he once knew slipping from him.

            Ludwig stopped abruptly, staring at the floor.

 

            “Forgive me, I am not myself. I’ve degenerated, and they know. They’ve already sent a few after me.” Ludwig explained, then looked into the dark, as if remembering something.

 

            “Hunters. A few of them, oh yes, they sent a few indeed. Some of them were even church hunters!” Ludwig answered, a large smile spreading across his face, too wide. He bared too many teeth for Gehrman to feel comfortable, like Ludwig was trying to smile the skin off his face.

 

            Gehrman nodded, readying to flee at a moment’s notice.

 

            “Why did you come here, friend, did they send you here? Do you want me dead as well, yes?” Ludwig asked, his voice breaking, but he continued to smile and Gehrman, lurching forward.

 

            “No—not at all. I came here because I wanted to know if you were alive.” Gehrman replied, shaking his head, pulling himself backwards.

 

            “No, you must. I should have fought harder, I should have argued more. _‘There will always be a need for hunters’_ I should have said, like you did. I did not, however. Of course you’d be mad, of course he’d be mad too. _‘Be kind to the church, be kind to Gehrman.’_ He said, Ha! What a jest.” Ludwig seemed to clarify to no one, “I have done neither.” His expression suddenly dropped, growling, snarling at no one.

 

            Gehrman felt his heart pounding in his chest, but he extended his hands once again. They slowly came out so that perhaps Ludwig would not flinch under his touch, or perhaps that if need be, Gehrman could tear them away.

            Gently, he placed his hands on Ludwig’s shoulders. He could feel Ludwig’s blood seeping from the sore spread onto his hands.

 

            “No, no you poor man, I am not mad.” Gehrman said softly.

 

            Ludwig’s eyes flickered, staring at him, but he kept his mouth firmly shut.

 

            “You must leave, old friend. They will be here, and there is nothing you can do.” Ludwig said, a sudden clarity washing across his face. Horror flickered in his eyes, concern into his face as he closed his mouth.

 

            Gehrman felt himself nearly clinging onto Ludwig. For so long, he’d left him alone, and now there he was, losing his mind in some dark lonely place, left to be killed, just like all holy men turned into beasts. He didn’t want to leave Ludwig alone again, he was almost as deeply resolved as he was to beckon the Old Ones with the cord.

            But Gehrman knew he could not remain, as deeply as it hurt his heart to admit, even slightly.

 

            “Ludwig, do you wish for me to cut you free, now?” Gehrman offered solemnly.

 

            Ludwig seemed to think for a moment, eyes going about the room, and then he met Gehrman’s, and laughed again. It reminded Gehrman of the way a horse cried out when it was terrified, a strange repeated blubbering sound. He laughed and laughed, and his hysterical voice crushed the fragile silence. It seemed he would do so forever, but almost suddenly he shut his mouth.

 

            “No.” Ludwig replied shortly.

 

            Ludwig raised a dirty hand, steeped in blood, and placed it on Gehrman’s shoulder. He nodded, and retracted, only to shamble off into the darkness, the blue light of the holy blade disappearing into nothing.

            He fell to his knees, covering his mouth with his hands. His eyes watered so greatly he could not properly see the floor, everything became a blur.

            Gehrman sat in silence, muffling his sobs, feeling the cold night grip him.

 

                        Gehrman never saw Ludwig again.

**Author's Note:**

> A working title of the fic was "Laurence Nooooo" so


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